


The slowest moving object in the universe

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Banter, Day At The Beach, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV God (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Romance, Summer Vacation, Tenderness, check my other stuff for that, ngk, sorry no porn this time, very very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 23:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have had feelings for each other for a very long time. It takes a date at the lake and a round of36 Questions That Lead To Loveto give them the final push.





	The slowest moving object in the universe

**Author's Note:**

> They don’t actually go through _all_ 36 questions or this would be longer than an apocryphal bible.  
Just the ones I found more interesting 🥰

There used to be a volcano here.

I would know. I put it there.

That’s the fascinating thing about this Earth, about this universe in general. Things change. Sometimes, things change without My permission.

This volcano, for example. It left behind a crater that filled with water, and water brings life. Now it’s a lake. It’s home to fish big and small, birds, a few turtles even. Poplar trees and green grass grow all around it.

The humans have taken to using it as a beach, although there is no sand. They come with their bags, their colourful towels, their bathing suits. They sit on the grass, bask in the sun, dive in the water – shrieking that it’s cold, as if they have suddenly forgotten their body temperature is generally much higher than that of the water of any lake, sea, or ocean.

It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is shining and there is not a cloud in the sky. Therefore, it’s a bit unusual how all the people who are travelling to the lake this morning abruptly change their mind before arriving. All of a sudden, they realize they have something more compelling to do, or decide that the sunny weather can’t be relied upon, or start doubting that they locked their front door. They turn their cars around and drive away.

Therefore, there happen to be only two people sitting on their towel on the grass – although they are not people at all. They are an angel and a demon. Let’s look at them closely.

The angel is wearing the same bathing suit he’s had since 1922. Its wide, mint green horizontal stripes start around his thighs and climb all the way up to his neck, where three little mother pearl buttons glimmer in the sun. Its short sleeves will make absolutely sure the angel won’t burn his pale shoulders in the sun.

The demon, on the other hand, carefully considered the latest in men’s fashion upon packing his suitcase back in London. He settled on a pair of square leg swimming trunks in a deep shade of red. He’s also wearing a short-sleeved black shirt, even though he’s undone all the buttons, enjoying the sunlight on his chest.

But let’s look at them closer still.

The angel is sitting in the shade of a lovely tree, gaze steady on the water. He fidgets with the ring around his little finger, taking deep, silent breaths. If we search inside his mind, we’ll find he’s a little annoyed by how perfect this is. No, annoyed is not the right word – _unsettled_, maybe. He’s had some words lodged in his throat since the world didn’t end, but they can’t seem to come out. In the quiet – the sound of the breeze coming from the lake, the chirping of the birds, a plane flying high over their heads – he can almost touch them. He’s sure, now, that he should say them. But he doesn’t know how. You don’t get to practice something you can only do one time. You just do it and pray to Me that you don’t botch it.

And Aziraphale still prays to Me, even though I haven’t answered in a long, long time – not in any way he can perceive.

The demon has scooted up to the edge of the towel to sit in the sun. He has his knees up to his chest and his arms over his knees, his golden eyes closed. He’s taken off his sunglasses, since there are no humans around. If we scrutinize his aura, we’ll find it reaching for the angel behind him, straining towards him, gently brushing the tip of his toes. But that’s hardly noteworthy; it’s been doing just so for thousands of years now. The angel has been perfectly aware of this from the moment it started.

Crowley turns to his friend and gives him a long, impenetrable look. Aziraphale, his hands suddenly too empty, reaches into his bag.

“The man at the newsstand in front of the hotel recommended these.” He explains, pulling out three colourful magazines, one of which enthusiastically shouts ‘_Crosswords!’ _from its cover. “I asked him what the locals bring along for a day at the lake.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Surprised you didn’t bring one of your books.”

“Oh, no. Too close to the water, I wouldn’t risk them—”

“Getting ruined.” The demon finishes for him, with a small upturn on his lips that pretends not to be a smile.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale replies, immediately averting his gaze and grabbing the crossword magazine. “So… let’s see what this is all about, shall we?”

He sits cross-legged and tries a classic crossword puzzle first. Crowley lies on his back next to him, arms crossed behind his head. The angel reads out loud the clue and how many letters it’s supposed to be, and they try together to come up with the answer. It’s no good. Aziraphale knows all about classic literature, but not so much about the latest chick lit sensation. Crowley is well versed in pop culture – compared to Aziraphale, but not quite enough. Neither of them knows enough about history, which is unacceptable, considering they’ve been here from day one. But I know – they’ve been distracted. And six thousand years is a lot to remember, even for an occult (or ethereal) being.

It’s only ten minutes before Crowley grows bored and takes the pen from Aziraphale’s hand to draw a little halo on the picture of the famous actor at the centre of the crossword puzzle.

“Blasphemy.” Scolds Aziraphale, taking the pen back and adding little horns on the actor’s head.

“And how is that better? Now it’s a demon with a halo.”

Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise. “Let’s try something else.”

They stare together at a sudoku for a few, long seconds.

“One of yours?” Aziraphale asks. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Crowley mutters. “It does look quite evil.”

Aziraphale’s closest brush with numbers is doing his taxes. He finds it to be a charming human activity. If he messes up, as he often does, he deals with any inconveniences in a non-human, non-charming way.

Crowley does much better, but sees no reason to apply himself if the puzzle isn’t cool enough to spark his enthusiasm. For the record, as soon as Aziraphale decides it’s time for a snack and gets distracted by a sandwich, Crowley takes the chance to play connect the dots. But that’s between Crowley and Me.

As the demon rolls around to lie on his stomach, face turned away from the angel, Aziraphale rifles through the other magazines he’s bought, putting aside the crosswords. It only takes him a few seconds to find something to do – which will avoid charged silences and stop him from wondering why he’s started minding charged silences so much.

“Oh, this looks interesting.”

“Hm?”

“It’s a series of questions. It doesn’t seem dreadfully difficult. We simply have to ask each other these questions back and forth.”

“What for?”

“To pass the time?”

Crowley manages half a shrug from where he’s lying. “Sure, all right.”

“Jolly good.” He clears his throat. “First question: ‘_how much coffee did you drink today?’_”

“Uh. None.”

“Me neither. Well, let’s… let’s try another, let’s see. Ah, here: ‘_what made you laugh today?’_”

“Nothing yet.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale thinks it over for a second. “Me neither. Fine, the next one seems more interesting. ‘_Did you take any photos today? What of?’_”

Crowley’s shoulders tense up the slightest bit. He mumbles something.

“I—what?” Aziraphale asks.

“I said _probably_.”

“Well, can’t you check? On your portable phone?”

“No.” Crowley replies in a carefully deadpan tone. “Don’t feel like moving.”

Aziraphale sighs at the demon’s non-cooperativeness.

I, however, don’t need Crowley to pull out his phone to know why he’s dodging the question. He only took one picture today, as soon as they arrived at the lake. Aziraphale stood a few feet from the water and gazed into the distance, the sun in front of him casting a long shadow behind him. He smiled at the sight, and Crowley stood to his side, took a few steps back, and very silently got his phone out to snap a quick picture.

He then swiftly hid it back before Aziraphale could turn to him, eyes crinkling as he remarked on the beauty of that place.

“Obviously, I haven’t taken any either. Oh, well.”

“This is a dumb game, angel.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the dirt.”

“Mud.”

Aziraphale checks the ground around the towel. “Where?”

Crowley gives a frustrated sigh. “Just read me the next question.”

“Ah, sure. Hm… ‘_if your day was turned into a movie, who would you cast?’_”

“As myself? Or as you?”

Aziraphale purses his mouth. “I guess… start with yourself.”

“Hm...” It takes Crowley a minute to come up with something. “Daniel Craig.”

“And who’s that?” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at Crowley’s back.

“The latest James Bond? We went together, remember?”

“Oh, of course.” Aziraphale blinks and tilts his head to the side, thinking back on that night. “The one with all the explosions.”

“Right.”

“Oh, but Crowley…” Aziraphale giggles. “He wouldn’t do at all! He’s so… what’s the word? He’s so _cool_.”

That gets Crowley to lift his head and turn around, so the angel can see the narrowed eyes and the raised eyebrows on the demon’s face. “And I’m not, is that what you’re saying?”

Aziraphale rests the magazine on his legs to raise up both hands. “You—well, he’s so cold, is what I mean. He has icy eyes. You’re…” He looks Crowley up and down, searching for the right word. “You’re _fiery_. It’s different.”

Crowley stares at him for a few seconds, a complicated expression on his face. “Fine.” He says at last, thickly.

“What about me?” Aziraphale asks him with a curious smile. “Who would you cast as me?”

“Dunno.” Crowley replies quickly. Too quickly. His memory flicks back to 1998, to a night when he was flipping through TV channels finding nothing to settle on, until something finally caught his attention. It was a story that involved a blond, blue eyed, gentle, handsome angel.

Either way, he’d sooner swallow a fountainful of holy water than admit to Aziraphale he’s watched all eight seasons of Charmed.

“Your turn.” He declares, changing the subject.

“Yes, well. I don’t have anyone specific in mind for you. You’re too, um.” He smiles, but turns his gaze away. “Unique.” He doesn’t see the face Crowley makes, and either way the demon is soon hiding it into the towel. “As for myself, I think I’d quite like someone who looks… good-natured. Someone like, say… Tom Hanks.”

“What? _No_.” Crowley unburies his face to protest. “Absolutely not.”

“Why ever not? He seems like such a nice fellow.”

“Yeah, _too_ nice. Won’t do.” He grins at Aziraphale, who can’t help smiling back and glancing away.

“Either way.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “_You’ve got mail_ was a good movie.”

“Was not.” Snaps back Crowley, who enjoyed it just as much as Aziraphale did, in no small part because they watched it together, several years after it came out, while exchanging notes about the presumed Antichrist. On Aziraphale’s insistence – although he had initially thought it would involve books much more than it actually did.

“Let’s keep going." The angel taps his finger on the glossy magazine page. “‘_What do you wish you did more of today?’_”

“Sleeping.”

“‘_What do you wish you did less of today?’_”

“Playing stupid games.” Crowley replies with a grin, earning a look from Aziraphale that tries to be chastising but ends up being fond rather than anything else. “What do _you_ wish you did more of today?” He asks back to the angel.

“Nothing.” Aziraphale beams down at him and Crowley has to hide his face again. “I like this day as it is.”

The angel takes a second to drink some water before continuing. “Next. _Name three things you and your partner have in common._”

“_’My partner’_ being you?” Crowley asks, voice muffled against the towel.

“I don’t see how it could refer to anyone else.”

The demon is quiet for a few moments. “We’re both occult forces, for a start.”

“Well, no. I’m—”

“_Ethereal_. I know. My point still stands. We’re not human, s’what I mean.” Aziraphale concedes with a nod Crowley doesn’t see. “And uh, we enjoy some earthly pleasures. Like wine.”

“Food.” Aziraphale adds.

“Sleeping. Yeah.”

“And what about the third thing?”

“Well, we… uh, never mind. I don’t want to dampen the mood or anything.”

“How so?” Aziraphale reaches out to touch Crowley’s clothed shoulder, barely a brush of his fingers.

Crowley props himself up with an elbow against the towel and rests his face in the palm of his hand. “We don’t have a side anymore, right? And we’re here on Earth, but making friends with humans is weird.”

Aziraphale blinks, a sad smile on his face. “I know what you mean. They’re here one day, gone the next.”

“Exactly. Making friends with them, it’s like… it’s like how humans get a dog or a cat. It’s…”

“Yes. I understand.” Aziraphale’s heart aches a bit for all the human friends he’s had through the ages, especially at first, before he learned.

“So we’re both alone.” He gives a frustrated groan. “See, I told you I didn’t want to dampen the mood.” Before Aziraphale can reply, he adds, “Sorry you’re stuck with me.” He tried to go for a joke, but it sounded darker than he meant it to.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale lies down so he can be at eye-level with him. Crowley misses his sunglasses dearly. “Please don’t make it sound like it’s something that happened to me. This is what I _chose_. I will never feel stuck with you.”

Crowley swallows. “You big sap.”

“You silly old serpent.” Aziraphale fires back with a smile.

After a long moment of silence, Crowley’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Your turn?”

“Oh, right.” Aziraphale blinks and looks up at the green branches shielding them from the sun. “Well, everything you said is correct, of course. If I have to come up with three more things we have in common, firstly I’d say… that we’re both disobedient. Although in very different ways.”

“Yes.” Crowley confirms with a grin.

“What else…” Aziraphale looks at Crowley, then down at himself, then at Crowley again. “I’d say we are both very particular about what we like. We both have a definite sense of style, albeit we go in opposite ways about it.”

“Fair enough.” Replies Crowley with a sort of shrug. “And?”

Whatever Aziraphale wants to say, he doesn’t. Instead, he presses his lips together tightly for a few seconds before speaking. “I think… well, I rather think both of us don’t tell the other what we actually think, at times.”

I’ve been watching over the two of them for a very long time now. From the moment I created them, new and soft and full of wonder. I witnessed the moment they met on the wall of the Garden. I have seen the demon circle the angel for thousands of years, at arm’s length, never farther, never closer. I must say – in a sense, I can tell that Aziraphale is the one circling Crowley now. Free will always makes for such an interesting show. Aziraphale isn’t even fully aware he’s doing it. But he has something to say, and he’ll swim around in circles around the demon until he’s gathered his courage.

“I think no one does.” Retorts Crowley, with a shrug that tries to be casual. “Going to go for a swim now.”

Aziraphale watches the demon slip the shirt off his shoulders and rush to the lake. He walks into the water without a shiver, although Aziraphale bets it must be rather cold, and Crowley so dislikes the cold. He feels a familiar surge of anxiety watching his friend dive far away from him, cocksure as anything, swiftly reaching deep waters where his feet won’t touch the bottom. Aziraphale breathes out. It’s fine, it will be fine. He’ll come back to him, like he always has.

Crowley swims almost to the centre of the lake, well past the point where his lungs ache in his chest. He stops and lets his limbs spread, belly up, floating in the water like a leaf. Everything is quiet there, the water laps his ears with each gentle wave, he can hear both the birds above him and the humming of the lake below him. It’s peaceful, it’s simple. A very stark contrast to the storm I know he carries in his chest.

The thing is – it’s very hard for a man to cross the desert, suffering hunger and thirst, and then stand in front of a banquet, being told to hold on just a little bit longer and not make any sudden movements lest he fucks the whole thing up. It requires more self-control than he trusts himself to have.

It’s also very, very hard to for someone who’s been alive so long to face something new, something with an uncertain outcome.

I, of course, know exactly how this will go down, but I won’t meddle, and the demon knows better than to ask Me – although he’s been known to shout at Me when the mood strikes.

They’re both calmer when Crowley steps out of the lake. Aziraphale smiles at him because it’s what he’s planned to do, and also because he couldn’t help it, not when Crowley is shaking water off his red hair, the sun behind his back making him almost glow.

The demon grabs a dry towel to wrap around his shoulders as he sits back down.

“Go on,” He gestures towards his magazine. “Let’s finish this off.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks back down at the questions with a small grin. “Right. Um. ‘_If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?’_” He raises both eyebrows. “Oh, dear.”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “I would tell our _parent_ She didn’t do a great job.”

Rude.

“I disagree. I think, all in all, we ended up right where we were supposed to be.” Aziraphale replies quietly, not looking at him.

“Y-yeah, because we put ourselves here. Because we _crawled_ our way here. Not because of anything She’s done for us.”

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side and glances at him. “But can you be completely, absolutely sure?”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth. In his mind, flashes of the Tadfield airbase, the whole matter of Great Plan versus Ineffable plan. Gabriel’s face painted with doubt, Beelzebub’s tangible irritation. “No.” He growls.

Aziraphale purses his lips the way he does when he’s glad he’s won yet another argument. “Next question then. Oh, this sounds quite interesting! ‘_Take one minute and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible_.’”

“That’s not a question.”

“Well, if you don’t want to play—”

“_Fine_. One minute, my life story.”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Hm.” Crowley pops the knuckles of one hand as he thinks. “Start counting.”

“Go.”

“Well, I started out as an angel, blah blah blah. Did some stuff. Hung some stars.”

“You—stars? What do you—”

“No time, only one minute, lots of details to cover. I was saying. Someone,” He says, looking up at Me. “Told me to take the trash out and locked the door behind me.” A muscle twitches in his jaw. “It wasn’t pretty. And then I was in Hell, literally. Took a few hundred years to get used to it, but heh. I managed. Then I was sent to Earth to make some trouble, so I did. And I kept doing it for six thousand years, like a good dancing monkey. Lived through the Flood. Spent some time with Jesus – cool guy. Didn’t really like either Greece or Rome, but back then there wasn’t much I liked about Earth, anyway. There wasn’t much I liked for a very, very, _very_ long time. And the fourteenth century – I _really_ didn’t like the fourteenth century. I guess things could only get better after _that _disaster. Took a nap. Ended up sleeping almost for a whole century – I’m sure you remember.”

“I do.” Aziraphale replies, piqued.

“Good. Then I woke up, learned to drive—”

“Not really.”

“Saved a very daft angel from getting blown up in a church, burned my feet. Delivered the Antichrist, averted the Apocalypse. All in good fun.” He pauses, narrows his eyes. “Hey, you were supposed to stop me after one minute.”

“Your narrating skills had me enraptured.”

“Make fun of me all you like angel, it’s your turn now. And I _will_ stop you after one minute, so make it quick.”

“Well.” Aziraphale, who’s still lying down, gathers his hands in his lap, glancing at the demon sitting beside him. “Before the beginning, soon after I was created, there was the War.” His gaze flickers to Crowley, the demon’s face carefully neutral. “I was assigned a platoon and I was sent to fight. I… had to, you see. It was—” He sighs. “It was absolutely ghastly, I can say that now. Fighting against your own siblings feels like… feels like ripping off a limb, may I be forgiven.”

“You don’t need to be forgiven, angel.”

“Ah… thank you. I just—I worry so much. I can’t help wondering whether She doesn’t... like me very much anymore.” He runs a hand over his face. “I apologise, I didn’t mean to—”

“If She loves you only when you obey Her She doesn’t love you at all.” Crowley replies, a steadiness to his tone suggesting he’s voiced a thought he’s kept in the safe confines of his mind for thousands of years.

Aziraphale stutters, staring at his friend. Slowly, he begins to smile, a sad little thing, his heart aching for the lovely, lonely demon beside him. “Quite right.”

“Do I need to remind you, you only have one minute?”

“No! Right. Er…” He blinks at the bright light reflected on the surface of the lake. “I didn’t have much to do for a while. Then I was sent to Earth, and told to guard the Eastern Gate and keep an eye on the Apple Tree, but not interfere—”

“Aaand time’s up.” Crowley cuts him off with a grin.

“Oh. I was just at the beginning.”

“The Garden is your beginning?” Crowley asks with one eyebrow raised.

Under the pressure of the words wanting to leave his mouth, Aziraphale smiles. “In a sense, I guess it is.” And he could swear the tips of Crowley’s ears turn a little red under his gaze.

“Next.”

“What?”

“Next question, angel.”

“Oh, right—right.” He lifts the magazine over his face. ‘_Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items_.’”

“_Ugh_.”

“Once again, Crowley, you don’t have to—”

“I like that you’re a bit wicked, underneath all the faff.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together, an eyebrow raised, more offended by the _faff_ than by the _wicked_. “I like that you are much more of a good person than you’d ever be willing to admit.”

Crowley smirks, letting a hint of his demonic nature shine through. “I like that you overindulge. Gluttony, sloth… you name it.”

The angel lowers his voice, eyes narrowed in annoyance, his tone sharp. “I like that you’re all bark and no bite.”

Crowley’s smirk only grows wider. “I like that you’re best friends with a demon. Bold choice.”

“I like that you stopped time for an angel.” Aziraphale tilts his head to the side slowly, until his neck cracks. “Let’s not forget that.”

“In my defence, wouldn’t have done that for just _any_ angel. Bunch of wankers, the whole lot of them.” Crowley's grin turns into something steadier. “Speaking of which – I like how much you’ve changed since we met.”

Finally Aziraphale replies with a smile of his own. “I like that you’ve stayed almost exactly the same.”

“No idea what you mean.” He runs a hand through his short wet hair, remembering his curls back in Eden. “I’ve changed a lot.”

“And yet not at all. Ah, here’s another one,” He fixes his gaze on the tree above them. “I like that you made it easier for me.”

Crowley doesn’t ask what _it_ is. He already knows. “Barely did anything.” He mutters. “I just waited for you. The slowest moving object in the universe. There, the fifth thing I like.”

Aziraphale turns to him. “Thank you.”

“Shut up.” Crowley replies with a roll of his eyes. “How many questions left?”

“Just two.”

“Go on then.”

Aziraphale lets the silence stretch for a second before reading. “_Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life._”

Crowley scowls. “I’m going to have think about this. You go first.”

“Long list?” Aziraphale asks with an impish smile before quickly changing the subject. “Oh, I know—there was this one time towards the end of the nineteenth century…”

And he delves into a story Crowley has trouble following, in no small part because Aziraphale goes off on tangents, skips back and forth in time, forgets to mention important details and pauses often to try and remember exactly a name, a place, a date. Either way, Crowley patches together that it’s something about two rival writers and Aziraphale switching up the names, ending up in a very awkward spot with his foot in his mouth.

“That’s not really all that embarrassing.” He comments when the angel is done.

“Surely you’re joking. I could not show my face for months after that!”

“Humans take themselves too seriously. There’s millions—_billions_ of them, even.”

“Yes, well. Could hardly explain that to Mr. Ward.”

“But you remember his name now.”

“A bit late for that, but yes, I do.” With a sigh, he turns to his friend. “What about you?”

“Uh…” Crowley’s problem, which I can see clear as day but Aziraphale most definitely cannot, is that all his embarrassing episodes are likely to make Aziraphale laugh. Like gluing coins to the sidewalk as a prank and then trying to pick them up the next day, or running straight into a glass door after convincing a few people in the right places that glass doors make any building look slick and expensive. One of Crowley’s biggest flaws is that he never has the foresight to see how his own tricks will come back and bite him. However, he can foresee very well that he won’t be able to take it if Aziraphale laughs at him now. Not today, when he feels closer than he’s ever been. “Actually, I’m too tired.”

He drops down on the towel instead, closing his eyes and pretending to rest.

He realizes his mistake only when he opens them a few seconds later to check why the angel is not protesting how he’s evaded the question.

Aziraphale was lying down already, but he’s turned to rest on his side, facing Crowley. Crowley, who crashed down with little forethought, is also on his side, facing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is smiling at him. Crowley tries to give back a wobbly shadow of a smile too. They stare at each other.

They could never be like this, before. Lying down together, out in the open, just a couple of feet between their bodies. The wind shakes the branches above them and spots of sunlight dance over their faces, and it’s the first time they can stop and look into each other’s eyes for more than a split second.

They might look human, but they’re not. They perceive time very differently, for a start. After six thousand years of stolen glances and fleeting looks, once they finally lock eyes they don’t turn away for a very long time. Aziraphale with his glossy eyes, his tight-lipped smile, his lip almost quivering. Crowley with his golden eyes open wide, his breath catching in his throat and his heart thrumming in his ears.

It seems to take eons for Aziraphale to reach out, leaving his hand palm up between the two of them. It takes just as long for Crowley to move his, putting it on the towel, his little finger barely brushing the side of the angel’s hand.

“What was the last question, angel?” Crowley murmurs, barely audible over the chorus of cicadas in the distance.

“Sorry?”

“The last question. You said we had two more, and we only did one.”

“Oh. Right.” Aziraphale doesn’t pick up the magazine again. “‘_What is your most treasured memory?’_” He asks, without breaking eye contact.

“I think it’s coming.” Crowley says, voice unexpectedly steady.

Aziraphale nods. “It’s been coming for a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Would’ve come a lot earlier, I think.”

“It would have.” Aziraphale scoots a bit closer. “It wanted to.”

“It couldn’t.” Crowley’s fingers twitch against Aziraphale’s hand. “I know it couldn’t. I always knew.”

Aziraphale gives him a blinding smile. “Quite right.”

“I could wait more,” Crowley is quick to add. “I can make myself wait more. No problem.”

The angel shakes his head. “No need.”

He takes Crowley’s hand in his, invites him closer with a gentle tug.

From up here, it looks like everything is shaking, just a little bit. The Earth, turning around its axis. The leaves over their heads. The angel and the demon by the lake, touching lips to lips, then forehead to forehead, breathing.

They’re still there as the sun begins to set over their heads, as the birds change their tune and the breeze turns humid and cold rather than cool. They’ll be fine. Crowley returns a favour he still owed from the Garden and wraps his strong black wing around them. Just so that they can stay a little longer, enjoy the moment a little more.

There used to be a volcano here, but now it’s a lake. Quite the opposite of what I had meant it to be.

Or did I?

**Author's Note:**

> Questions are a mix of [this](https://imgur.com/gallery/0pfe7) and [this](https://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html), I picked and chose the ones I liked.
> 
> For inspiration for Crowley's sneak pic of Aziraphale, [see here](https://chamyl.tumblr.com/post/186160371549/wesheenknewsis-michaelsheen-michael-sheen). ❤️
> 
> I have never seen a James Bond movie, so I’m more lost than Aziraphale when Crowley talks about it. Still, it’s book canon that Crowley loves those, along with Golden Girls (Charmed is my addition). What an absolute dork.
> 
> Also, I think all of Crowley’s descriptions of his Fall (“sauntered vaguely downwards”, “pool of boiling sulphur”) are just there to cover up a much worse experience and I don’t buy a word he says on the matter. That’s why in this fic I had him skip over it with his usual (questionable) sense of humour. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready to talk about it, okay?! 😢
> 
> Lastly, writing dialogue for english characters when you’re ESL is a fucking _nightmare_, but I hope it wasn’t terrible – I think it came out alright, all in all 😕


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